It was the kind of night that washed away evidence and muffled sound. Perfect for their line of work.

On the roof of a derelict warehouse overlooking Pier 14, four figures were little more than silhouettes against the bruised sky.

Maddox gave a single, slight nod.

In the silence that followed—a silence filled only with the drumming rain and the distant groan of a ship’s horn—a single, suppressed shot echoed.

It wasn’t from Cassian’s rifle. It wasn’t from any of them.

Silas Bronski’s head snapped back. A dark, wet flower bloomed in the center of his forehead. He crumpled to the ground without a sound.

On the roof, four killers froze.

The four men looked at each other. The same impossible truth settled over them, cold and humbling.

Someone else had been here. Someone better. Someone who had watched them set up, waited for their moment, and stolen their kill with a single, perfect, mocking shot.